


Falling Catching

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, archive warning: a cs themed photo album, archive warning: fall as fuck, archive warning: for cs halloweek 2k17, archive warning: geared specifically towards autumn, archive warning: there's no plot, archive warning: think of it like a photo album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 08:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12503460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: After a long, hot summer, Emma and Killian escape Storybrooke to enjoy all the aesthetic pleasures that fall has to offer. Post S6, newlywed road trip 2k17.





	Falling Catching

**Author's Note:**

> For CS Halloweek! Please note, I am a biased little bean and had the babes spend some time in NY because NY in the fall is the actual best. The story that Killian tells Emma is basically taken from a short story by Angela Carter in _The Bloody Chamber_. [There’s also a lil moodboard for this fic on my writing blog.](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com/post/166812463956/falling-catching-by-hencethebravery)

A few months after the wedding (and yet another curse), a few months after things return to normal by Storybrooke standards, the weather finally starts to turn. Summer takes an unusually long time to end; the hot, occasionally humid days persisting long after the first official day of autumn. By the end of September, the heat starts to feel oppressive. However much Emma had enjoyed the feeling of the sun on her skin, had vainly admired the smattering of dark freckles on the bridge of her nose and along the tops of her cheeks, her enthusiasm had begun to severely wane.

The only way she could seem to find relief from the heat were those few blissful moments standing beneath a freezing cold shower—those few seconds after she’d step into their adjoining bedroom, luxuriating in the warm breeze against her wet skin. Unfortunately, it never lasted very long. Despite lying perfectly still and mostly (if not completely) naked atop the bed, she would almost immediately begin to feel the sweat gather in the dip at the base of her throat, sliding down the smooth, flat pane of bone between her breasts.

Killian wasn’t generally one for bemoaning physical discomfort, living on a boat in a uniquely inconvenient world made him almost annoyingly patient with the irritating realities of being a human being. She could see the damp floppiness of his hair at the end of the day, the way the sweat would create an unpleasant looking rash between the leather of his brace and the flesh of his wrist. What he couldn’t really handle, apparently, was her complete lack of interest in being touched.

It wasn’t as if they’d gone all summer without indulging in one another, she could, in fact, recall many a time in early and midsummer when she could barely keep her hands off him; relishing in the slipperiness of their bodies, the saltiness of his skin under her tongue. But now, with summer officially over, and that sluggish, inescapable exhaustion that comes with too much sun keeping her from wanting to do _fuck all_ —it’s time to admit it, enough is enough.

“I don’t care how resilient you are,” she moans into the hot, oppressive space above his shoulder, “there’s no way you aren’t miserable right now.”

“What is this new obsession with dragging me down with you, darling?” he asks on a laugh, trying to chase after her lips, only she _will_ _cry_ if he comes any closer, and he’s already far too close—she can feel the heat coming off of him in waves, and it’s not enticing. If anything, she’s feeling a bit nauseous.

“You’re too perfect, it makes me nervous.” He laughs and flops onto his back, pushing the hair off his brow. “Please be miserable with me.”

“I guess I’ll admit to this infuriating lack of being able to kiss you,” his eyes meeting hers over the gentle, sloping hills of pillows and tangled sheets between them. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.”

Despite the heavy note of sleepiness in his voice, he still manages to ignite a fire in her belly with the way he’s staring at her lips, and she has to actively remind herself that she will not be seduced anytime soon. Sure, it’ll feel nice in the moment, but very soon after she’ll feel like a swamp monster and have to take _another_ cold shower.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, love.”

Against her better judgment, she takes a heavy finger and starts prodding at the soft, _sweaty_ , fuzziness of his bare chest. “You’re a terrible liar, Killian Jones.”

“Ah, yes,” he admits in a whisper, his lips coming closer all the while. She can only just make out his features in the now near-darkness of their bedroom, but she can feel the enticingly light feeling of his lips against hers, and takes a moment to mentally chastise herself for being utterly _weak_.

“...But so are you.”

* * *

The heat breaks with a storm off the coast and the entire town breathes a sigh of unmitigated relief. It’s October, but better late than never. It takes a few days for her body to adjust to the drastic temperature change, and she manages to get a stuffed up nose and a sore throat in the days that follow.

It’s annoying, but it’s better than being so hot you can’t sleep properly, or touch your husband, or put on pants. She takes a day off to sit on the couch and drink water full of so many lemon slices her lips start to get chapped, and in preparation for the upcoming season, watches a handful of old Halloween-themed television specials that she hadn’t thought of in ages. There aren’t many pleasant memories of her childhood, but there’s still something about this time of year—the changing of the world, as if everyone’s getting a second chance.

There’s a lot about how the both of them have grown up that can make it challenging to relate to certain experiences that other non-magical folk might get equally as giddy about. Lily, for example, despite her propensity for grumpiness, was more than happy to indulge in some hot, spiked cider with her on the porch. She’d even shared the large, heavy blanket that Emma had pulled from the hall closet. There’s just a certain kind of magic to autumn—to the ending of one season, the beginning of a new one. The break in the heat is kind of like a jolt to your otherwise languishing system, and while she couldn’t necessarily ride on horseback growing up, or take a potion to instantly cure her chicken pox, Misthaven didn’t have apple festivals. Or seasonal coffee drinks, or oversized, fuzzy cardigans.

* * *

“Had a bit more to worry about, didn’t I?”

The kitchen is bathed in a soft, warm glow as she sits patiently at the table, her feet pulled up beneath her thighs to stave off the chill. She hasn’t really gotten sick of it yet, the sight of him at the stove, stirring or steeping something or other. The scent of some kind of spicy seafood chowder hits her nose in just the right way and she can feel all that stuffed up nastiness clear for a few blissful seconds, her mouth watering and stomach grumbling.

“So, what, you just weren’t paying attention? Do seasons not change at sea?”

He’s serving up two bowls as he scoffs at the suggestion, playfully scolding her ignorance of seafaring matters. “Of course we have seasons at sea, Swan, and I paid very careful attention, thank you very much.”

She wonders if it has something to do with modernity and culture. Killian makes it a point to consider the pre-modern age of this world, when people had to rely on the Earth for their living, when the day-to-day was far less easy than it is now. There just simply wasn’t time to indulge in such things.

“But you did have magic, didn’t you?”

“Oh, it existed certainly,” he chuckles briefly, wiping some excess broth off her chin, “but it wasn’t quite so easy to access as your parents and Regina make it seem.”

She wrinkles her nose at the deeply complex realities of living in a fantasy realm and backs away from _that_ rabbit hole before she completely tumbles down, down, down inside, never to be seen again—choosing instead to consider _this_ reality, and all its delightful, season-specific propensity. It’s hard to explain it and not sound like an idiot, quite honestly. And even though she feels shockingly comfortable speaking with Killian on almost any subject, it’s still kind of hard to really relate in words the sheer _feeling_ of hearing dried leaves crunching under your feet.

Which is when she suggests taking a small vacation.

“Are you sure, Emma?”

Never taking a honeymoon, too anxious to leave Storybrooke as if everything would fall apart once she crossed the town line. Nervous about Henry, even though he’s more of a teenager than ever these days and most of their communication is via text. She knows her parents and Regina would be more than able to keep a handle on things, but still, the idea of an actual break seems like a fantasy to her. Something you imagine and dream about, but which is, ultimately, far too good to be true, and if you start thinking like _that_ , Emma Swan, one or both of you will end up cursed or _dead_.

“Yeah,” she answers suddenly with a shake of her head, sniffing away the unpleasantness, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

* * *

 The bug is confirmed drivable before they leave. The brakes get checked, the tires pumped full of air. The trunk is packed with duffle bags, the backseat is stacked with thick quilts and maps and a cooler full of snacks for the road. She’s an old gal, so the only musical option is the radio and a tape deck, which _would_ suck, if you were a monster and hated Fleetwood Mac. Killian might hate Fleetwood Mac, but there’s no way of knowing until they’ve listened to _Rumours_ about 500 times.

They leave early on a Saturday morning, before the sun comes up, and Main St. is flooded with a thick, damp fog. The air is cool and smells a bit like smoke as they drive through the woods towards the town line, the AM station on the radio crooning some old, classical concerto beneath the turning of the tires. It doesn’t feel much like a time for talking, so she reaches out to curl her fingers around his hook instead, his face flushing a delightful pink in the periphery of her vision. As they pass the sign for Storybrooke he emits an audible hum of relief, and her toes wiggle restlessly inside her boots against the gas pedal. So much better than magic.

* * *

They drive for about half the day before making their first stop, far too enamored with the infiniteness of the highway, the pine trees towering overhead—the sweet, heady scent of them seeping in through the cracked windows. The fog dissipates eventually, but the day stays grey and cool, and by some unique, human trick of the head she’s all but forgotten about what the heat had felt like, as if those last few, brutal weeks had never happened. They make it over the border into New York around noon, and despite all the coffee the inside of her head still manages to feel like it’s been wrapped in wool.

The bleak day finally gives way to a light drizzle, and Emma yawns as they pull into a local hotel, lovingly adorned with garlands of fake leaves, piled high with pumpkins and cinnamon-scented pinecones peeking out of a barrel. A lone ghost hangs from a string by the front office, and she feels a kind of delightful, anticipatory chill in her bones.

“Wait here, love,” he says lightly, stopping her from abandoning her post against the side of the bug. “I’ll check in. Back in a tick.”

There’s a vision stirring in her mind and it’s the unique, dark quiet of an unclaimed hotel room; freshly cleaned (hopefully) and awaiting new occupants. While hopping from place to place had gotten exhausting and depressing after a while, there was always something comforting about the expectant nature of hotels. Especially when there were nice people behind the counter, ignorant of whatever petty crime she and Neal had committed that day, no way of knowing the pathetic sordidness of her life. They would stand there, smiling and chatting behind the counter talking about free amenities like they actually _wanted_ her there. _We’re here to help you_ , they’d say happily, not a hint of bitterness in their tone, _enjoy your stay._

Thunder claps as Killian closes the door behind them, the sound of the rain growing louder in its ferocity, lashing against the windows. She falls heavily onto the bed without removing a single item of clothing, her feet still trapped inside her boots, the creases of her elbows stiff inside her jacket. He lets out a chuckle from somewhere by her feet, his own voice carrying a hint of drowsiness, “While I would be more than happy to join you in this endeavor, you might be more comfortable without the boots—” he pauses and she can almost _hear_ the way his hand comes up to stroke at his jaw, “and the jacket.”

“Are you flirting with me, Jones?”

Her voice is muffled against the comforter but he lets out a chuckle regardless as he begins to peel the boots down her legs. “I would never.”

He undresses her slowly, and while there’s almost always an attraction simmering beneath the surface, it doesn’t interfere with the platonic affection of this particular moment. Each variation of their intimacy has its own kind of magic; whether it be entirely domestic and fleeting, as if an afterthought, or deliberate and physical, a mad moment of almost painful lust. She’d taken note of it before they’d gotten married, but it had just seemed so much more obvious after the fact. The foreverness of their intimacy; all the different kinds she would be able to know and love with a certainty she’d never felt before.

Eventually he manages to secure the both of them beneath the blankets, but not before cracking open a window at the back of the room to let in the wetness on the air, the sound of the rain and wind a quiet, drumming soundtrack to the warmth of his breath against her ear, the beating of his heart against her back. She feels herself drift away in time with the sensation of his fingertips trailing up and down the top of her arm, her body sinking heavily into the pleasantly soft mattress.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, there’s a rich, buttery light falling across the carpet. For a moment, she wonders if maybe they’ve slept until morning, but a cursory glance at the digital clock on their nightstand reveals that it’s only been a few hours. It’s a pre-dusk light, the final, powerful rays of the sun reminding you that they’d been there all along, even with the doggedness of the clouds during the day. Killian is a sturdy presence at her back, a warm and blissful reminder of where they are at this very moment—asleep and away, with no one to bother them.

A gust of post-storm air slinks in through the open window and she can feel the bite of it against her nose, smell the impending frost as it crawls south through the mountains. She had noticed a cheap set of wind chimes hanging from the office door and she can hear them now, an inelegant clanging softened by the walls of their room, the insulation of the pillows and blankets cocooned around them both.

Without really thinking about it she adjusts herself against him, trying to better fill any of the empty space left between their bodies, and his arm tightens around her waist; her heart thumping with an overwhelming feeling of affection for this man she now calls her _husband_. His wrist skims lightly over her hip and she slowly turns to face him, hoping that she’ll have a few more minutes to admire him in the stillness of sleep, but predictably he’s already awake, his tired gaze mirroring her own.

His voice is gruff and quiet when he inquires after the time, and she whispers something about it being close to 5 or so before hushing him with a kiss. It’s not as stale as she’d expected, having only slept the few hours, and his nose is unusually cold against her own. Normally she finds genuinely concerned that he might have some sort of fever with how hot he tends to get in his sleep.

“Your nose is cold,” she whispers against his lips, trying to avoid disrupting the peacefulness of the moment. He grunts and playfully hides his face against the warmth of her neck, and she laughs loudly into the silence, relishing the feeling of his skin against hers. The rest of their clothing comes off easily enough, as they’d be down to nothing but their underwear anyway, and she spends a leisurely amount of time enjoying the sensation of his breath between her legs; his unshaven cheeks and chin sliding along her belly.

It’s another few hours before they emerge, the sun having set somewhere between his fingers sliding through her hair and her legs wrapping lazily around his waist.

The night is quiet as they make their way towards the bug, hoping to find a diner open somewhere for dinner, and she has to pull her jacket a bit tighter about her person to ward off the cooler temperatures of the evening. _Not a bad way to start_ , she thinks happily as she watches Killian jump behind the wheel, his hair wonderfully mussed at the back, _not bad at all._

* * *

The rest of the trip follows in a similarly blissed out, pumpkin-spiced state of carefreeness that she’s never really experienced in her life. By the many happy, confused looks on Killian’s face, she thinks it’s fair to say that he feels the same.

There’s one day spent in a state of near-endless intoxication, having stumbled upon a farm that offered apple picking and impossibly cheap alcohol all at once.

“This realm is a miracle, Swan,” he had been forced to admit, delighted at the prospect of their being apples and booze made from those _same_ apples all on the _same_ premises; the cider bubbly and sweet, it’s hard to forget it’s _actually_ alcoholic, and they get lost in the multicolored infinity of the orchard until one of them’s sober enough to drive back to the hotel.

* * *

They take another day to hike through a particularly dense forest, where the sun can barely manage to break in and out between the leaves of the trees, coating the forest floor in vivid oranges and yellows, as if the whole world were on fire. It’s an unexpectedly strenuous hike, the land shot through with rocks and exposed roots; the topographical nature of the area made of steep inclines and narrow paths through the mountains.

Luckily for them it’s the middle of the week, so there’s few people to bother them, and it’s as if the world is empty with the exception of the two of them, the only sound being the crunchiness of leaves underfoot (just as satisfying as she remembers), the heaviness of their breath loud and taxed in the cold air. When they finally make it to the top mid-afternoon, the view is enough to effectively silence them both; the atmosphere becoming charged with an as yet to be determined significance that hadn’t been there before.

The mountains stretch on, and on, and on towards the horizon, as if they’ll never end, and there’s the look of the sea reflected in Killian’s gaze as he stands at the edge of a cliff, his lips parted in appreciation.

“I feel as if I could set sail,” he admits softly to himself; to her, to the howling of the wind as it whips around the mountain’s peak. It sounds like a confession, as if he were revealing some kind of hallowed secret, and there’s a feeling of honor in its profundity—that he’s chosen to reveal his misdeeds, his desires, the benign secrets that pass through one’s mind at any given moment.

She hums in agreement, coming up behind him to link their arms and rest her chin atop his shoulder. When she takes a deep, cleansing breath, the smell of him mingles with the air and the earth and if she could bottle it she would—the mustiness of the leather, the hint of apple on his breath, sweet and enticing. An illustration from Henry’s book springs suddenly to mind. The Jolly Roger sailing through the air, her wing-tipped sails almost indistinguishable from the surrounding clouds.

“Me too,” she whispers into his ear, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. No harm in taking a moment to indulge the lost, lonely children inside them both; the travelers and adventure-seekers they’d been before they had found a home in one another. Thinking about the past is so much easier than it used to be, not quite so heavy as it had once been. It probably has something to do with a renewed faith in the future. It doesn’t feel quite so painful, thinking about the person she used to be, knowing where she’d end up, who’d be at her side.

“Let’s get back before it gets dark,” pressing a firm kiss to his cheek, tugging him back towards the trail for the return trip, “I hear there’s some rum in it for you.”

* * *

A week or so before Halloween they find a drive-in screening a few horror classics. Thanks to Henry, he’s gotten a bit of a crash course in film, although he’s never really watched a horror movie or sat in a car to watch one, but he does seem to understand the general principle of the thing.

She spots an ad in the lobby of one their hotels, a stack of fliers next to restaurant menus and haunted house attractions. Apparently it’s been there for years, and when they drive up past the ticket booth the age of the place is undeniable. It’s a large swath of open field surrounded by tall, imposing pine trees, in front of which stands a large, slightly dilapidated movie screen.

“Explain the charm of this particular activity to me again?”

It’s only after she’s grabbed a quilt from the backseat and laid it across their laps, a full flask of mulled cider and a half-empty bag of locally-made caramels resting between them that he finds his answer without her having to say a single word. She’d had to spend some time curating his sweet tooth before and during the trip, not wanting him to miss out on some of the more crucial tastes of the season: all that sticky, sugary goodness.

She manages to stay awake all the way through _Dracula_ , but falls asleep about halfway through _The Mummy_ , her head in Killian’s lap, blanket tucked securely around her shoulders. At one point she realizes she’s falling asleep, which is odd—most of the time it happens too fast to really notice, only this time she can feel herself losing her grip on wakefulness, the growls, shrieks, and gasps growing less focused, the dialogue less comprehensible.

“Are you having fun?” she mumbles sleepily, trying to stay awake long enough to appreciate the heat of his body, the scratchiness of the blanket that smells like the inside of her mother’s large, superfluous trunk of cloaks and quilts.

He chuckles and tries to remove some of the hair from her eyes and mouth, “I do believe I am, love. Are _you_?”

There’s a suggestion that they leave for a more suitable bed, but she manages to utter a hasty refusal, wanting him to enjoy the rest of the night despite her own surrender. In her few, final moments of consciousness she manages to hear a gasp of surprise and delight at something that’s happened on screen; the sound of a crinkling candy wrapper, and it’s the soundtrack of his movements, unintentional and familiar, that lulls her the rest of the way into sleep.

* * *

The night before the drive back he suggests that they camp under the stars, and while she’s never been one to pass up spending the night in a soft bed, it’s hard to say no when he seems so excited. Not to mention the fact that he’s gone along with pretty much every objectively silly fall-flavored activity she’s suggested thus far.

He manages to find the most isolated patch of land he can, right on the edge of a sizable lake that reflects the moon in absurdly picturesque fashion. They’d spent most of the day hiking through the forest to find it, taking advice from the park rangers as well as Killian’s own attractive map-reading abilities. It’s mesmerizing—the sight of his shoulder angling back to pull it from his pocket, the way he glances at it quickly and easily, confidently turning one way and then another. She has a great many skills, but intuitively wandering through the woods has never been one of them.

They set up the tent in the event of rain, but he’s pretty determined to lay out beneath the stars, and she arranges their bedrolls, blankets, and pillows in an attempt to create a satisfactorily cushioned bed between their not-quite-so-spry bodies and the unforgiving reality of sleeping on the edge of a forest.

“Trust me,” she says at the sight of his indignant glare, “your back will thank me.”

He puts up a bit of a fight at first, but she ends up using magic to light the fire, as it would take significantly less time than rubbing two sticks together, and the frigid air is starting to make her grumpier than she’d like. The flames lick and snap their way towards the sky, the embers floating lazily upwards to meet the stars. She asks him for a story and he happily concedes, embarking on an oddly familiar tale about a girl who falls in love with a beast, only he doesn’t turn into a prince at the end. _She’s_ the one who’s grown a lovely fur coat after their shared kiss, her nails sharp and teeth bared.

“I hope this isn’t some kind of weird guilt trip,” she says afterwards, tilting up her chin to glance at him from her cozy place between his legs. It rings a little too harshly of the worries that plague his own heart, the fear that he’s somehow _corrupted_ her with all his villainous misdeeds, but he actually surprises her with a shake of his head.

“Not at all. The girl’s happy at the tale’s end, aye?”

Shaking free of her fine dress, the pins falling from her tightly coiled hair. The story ends with the pair of them running through the trees, howling at the moon.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Oh, you ‘ _guess_ ,’ do you?” Playfully mocking her words, poking at her ribs in a way that proves unexpectedly delightful. It’s like she’s a teenager again, the way he laughs against her ear and she helpless to do anything but shriek gleefully and unashamedly into the night. “Howling at the moon are we, princess?”

 _Not a princess_ , she thinks, watching the clouds as move against the sky, the silver light of the moon intermittently bathing their campsite in an eerie glow, _never a princess._ When she throws her head back against his shoulder, a resounding, ecstatic cry on her lips, the past has never seemed further away.

* * *

A few days before they’re scheduled to make the trip home, she starts to get a little bit ahead of herself. Nervous at the prospect of the night before and the morning of—wondering if she’d spend the entire trip back thinking about what they’d missed while they were gone, what fresh hell they’d be expected to fix.

She knew she was sullying the last few days of their trip, which she wasn’t particularly proud of, but it was hard to ignore the impending reality of the fact. In a few days she’d be back in Storybrooke, back at the sheriff’s station, fielding calls from her mother and Regina, worrying about portals opening and spells gone awry. She’s sitting on the balcony off their hotel room, watching the sunrise from behind the mountains when she initially thinks of it. Which, she’s not entirely sure why she hadn’t thought of it earlier, it makes perfect sense, and honestly, the mere suggestion makes it feel as if a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders.

“Hey,” she exclaims in an excited whisper, straddling Killian’s stomach as he drifts in and out of sleep, “wake up.”

“Am I not allowed this _one_ morning of peace?” he groans, his hand and wrist coming to rest on her thighs regardless of his apparent ire. She can remember the days when touching one another was this planned, careful thing. The wrong moment, a touch too firm or too light, and the whole thing might have fallen apart. She can’t deny the joy of noticing this particular touch, as if he hadn’t even thought about it.

“I had an idea.”

He opens one of his eyes, a twinkle of mischief there despite the rudeness of his awakening, and he grins. “How unfortunate.”

“Shut up. This is a serious idea.”

“Which is?”

It had seemed impossible to keep inside only moments earlier, with the sun shining on her face, the hot coffee running in her veins. Really, an incredible idea, almost mad at herself for having waited this long to think of it, only now that it’s here and she’s got his undivided attention she’s a little more terrified than she thought she’d be. What if he thought it was stupid? What if he refused?

“Emma,” he says firmly, giving her thigh a gentle pinch, “what’s your idea?”

_Be my deputy. Be the hero you always wanted to be—that I’ve known you could be for almost as long as I’ve known you._

“I need a partner.”

He lifts a quizzical brow, imploring her to continue within this same vein of her vague suggestion, while she _desperately_ hopes that her face is not as red as it feels. “Being the sheriff,” she elaborates, slowly finding the words as she continues, “David won’t be helping out as much anymore, and… I need someone I can trust. To help.”

“You think the Storybrooke denizens would be content with a pirate replacing their king?”

“He’s not a ‘king,’” she corrects quickly, rolling her eyes. “And I think you’ve proved yourself capable more than enough times.”

She tries to keep her gaze from seeking out the sensitive skin of his neck, the feeling of his heart beating beneath her legs, and instead attempts to gauge his reaction, consider what he might possibly be thinking in these few moments of torturous silence. Tries to imagine what he might look like with a badge at his hip instead.

“I suppose,” be begins carefully, “if that’s what you want, I might find it within myself to accept such a charge.”

“But is it what _you_ want?”

He takes a few moments to think it over and she’s grateful he’s not jumping at the chance simply because she’s the one to have suggested it. He sits up rather abruptly, the hint of a smile on his face, and she has to hold onto his shoulders to keep her balance, her eyes meeting his as she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Well? What do you say, Captain?”

* * *

Whereas the drive west had been wet and dreary, the return trip is bright and unusually warm as they make their way back to Storybrooke. The leaves have somehow turned even more vibrant in the intervening weeks, and she keeps her window rolled down the entire trip back, basking in the comfortable weather before it turns frigid and unpleasant.

The bug is packed once again, only there are bags of apples for baking, bottles of cider and liquor to keep them sustained in winter, and a few other odds and ends for Henry and her parents. The fear that she’d felt a few days earlier, the overwhelming certainty that she’d be headed back for disaster had slithered quietly away. Driven off by the feeling of Killian’s lips against hers, the familiar charm of his words against her ear.

_“Of course, Emma. I could never imagine myself anywhere else but at your side.”_

She glances over and smiles at the sight of him asleep, handsome as ever. It’s hard not to be suspicious when you find yourself with nothing to worry over, but she does her best to keep herself in time with the voice crooning softly from the speakers. Admires the leaves falling from the trees as they whiz by, back towards the sea. Back home.


End file.
